The Cannib-Jarl
by Morninglight
Summary: The final story in Ysraneth's Tale. Ysraneth becomes the Jarl of Falkreath. T for a bit of language, implied femslash and cannibalism.


Note: Another Ysraneth one-shot because I need cheerfulness. Trigger warnings for implied femslash, mentioned cannibalism and Ysraneth being Ysraneth. This universe is a touch bizarre because it's humour, so becoming Jarl is that easy. This will also be the last Ysraneth story.

…

"So the Dragonborn, her wife and her best friend hit the town of Falkreath for some mead…"

"…And the Kriisfahlil walks in and becomes dinner," Odahviing finished with the draconic equivalent of a smirk. It was more of a grimace, but Ysraneth was slowly teaching her oversized lizard buddy humour, cuisine and other things conducive to peaceful coexistence with mortalkind. The punchline he came up with also pretty bad, but she had to give him points for effort.

Lucia and Sofie were growing rapidly now they were eating properly and so the trio had come to Falkreath to see if new dresses could be found for the girls. Lydia sucked at weaving and Ysraneth plus the pureblood Bosmer following the Green Pact really couldn't work with fibres, so they had to buy the kids clothing because apparently dragonhide and Thalmor leather were inappropriate materials for their adopted offspring. Ysraneth sighed; Lydia was still a bit miffed because she'd turned Numinex's skull into a chamberpot for Jarl Balgruuf to use as a wedding gift for him and Irileth.

"Can I pat him?" asked a little girl of her mother, pointing at Odahviing.

"Hey, would you like some random person patting you?" Ysraneth asked of the girl. Odahviing was mostly well-behaved, but he still had his faults.

"No!"

"Odahviing's a person. He doesn't want to be patted."

The mother, a harried-looking Breton woman, smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, Dragonborn. Mai's wanted to meet a dragon since she saw one three years ago."

"Behave," Ysraneth muttered to Odahviing. "No eating the kid."

"Of course, Iiz-Raan-Aaz," the dragon promised. "Not enough meat on her."

Lydia facepalmed as the mother blanched.

"Sorry about that. Dragons are predators." Ysraneth smiled at the kid.

"Is it true you eat elves?" Mai asked eagerly.

"Only Thalmor Altmer," Ysraneth answered as Runil, an ex-Thalmor Altmer turned Priest of Arkay, emerged from Grey Pine Goods.

"Ysraneth, Lydia!" The old mer hurried over and gave them both a hug. "Congratulations on your wedding! I'm a little hurt I wasn't invited though, my dears."

"Why don't we just say it started with an Altmer main course and ended in a big drunken or-err, party," Ysraneth answered, changing her last word as she recalled an impressionable kid was in earshot. "Given the amount of Bosmer with grudges and Stormcloaks there…"

"Ah, of course." Runil nodded understandingly.

"Odahviing, Runil is in the same category as Fasendil – not food," Ysraneth muttered to the dragon as he eyed the priest thoughtfully.

"Geh, too old anyway," the dragon retorted with a huff.

"Thank Arkay for that," Runtil countered dryly. "Not to pass judgment, Ysraneth, but was it wise to introduce him to eating Thalmor? I'm not sure – forgive, Sera Dragon, this is no insult to your intelligence but to how we must all look alike to you – he can tell the difference between Thalmor and innocent Altmer."

"Given that most Thalmor would go sliding down a dragon's throat rather than lose the black and gold robes, we're pretty good," Lydia observed quietly.

"True enough, my dear. For years after I fled them, I felt naked in my priest's robes…" Runil sighed, clasping his hands together. "I'm glad you're in town. Steward Nenya wants to speak to you, as does Thane Dengeir."

Ysraneth echoed the old mer's sigh. "What has Siddgeir done now?"

"Spent not just his own personal stipend but all of Falkreath's tithes," Runil reported grimly. "We have no funds to pay the guards, the mercenaries who hunt down bandits... and the creditors who want Siddgeir's hide for owing them coin."

Ysraneth glanced at Lydia. Balgruuf had been dropping some broad hints about her going for Falkreath's Jarlship and she'd jokingly agreed. But things had been getting steadily worse in the Hold and as Thane, she'd found herself covering for people's needs because there were always bandits, stupid dragons and other ways to make coin. The small Bosmer community that had sprung up here were even pitching in, relying on the flesh of bandits and other human predators so that the folk with pickier appetites could have the venison and other animal meats. Even Brelyas, the new Listener of the Dark Brotherhood (earning that title after murdering Erikur and apparently hearing the voice of the Night Mother), was arranging for food and supplies.

"I'm a cannibal, not a Cannib-Jarl," she pointed out. "Dengeir's two steps off senile and Thadgeir needs a pair."

"At the moment, I'll take the Cannib-Jarl over the Jarl who's bled us dry," Runil countered dryly. "You've fed most of Falkreath Hold out of your own pocket, your Bosmeri friends have the bandits running scared, and you're the niece-in-law of the Jarl of Whiterun."

"Look, I'll speak to Nenya and even Dengeir first," Ysraneth answered carefully. "I don't want to reignite tensions after we got the Civil War settled."

Runil nodded, a wry glint in his golden eyes indicating that priest of Arkay or not, he damned well guessed how a wedding feast had turned into several weddings. For an ex-Thalmor, he was a pretty cool guy.

"Eat him," Odahviing advised calmly.

It had been awkward explaining to the kids why Mummy Ysraneth sometimes cooked her own meals and wouldn't share but given Sofie had been orphaned by Thalmor killing her Stormcloak pa and Lucia pretty much thought the sun shone out of her arse, they'd taken it pretty well. The Thalmor Embassy had been shut down last month as the last of the agents slunk home, terrified that Ysraneth would attack and eat them on principle. They were right, but Thalmor were so scarce in Skyrim that she and the dragons were thinking of ranging into Cyrodiil for special occasions.

"He's Nord and so am I," Ysraneth pointed out. She had her standards, dammit!

The dragon rolled his eyes but said nothing as she and Lydia made their way into Gray Pine Goods for some new dresses. Predictably there was nothing available, so Ysraneth put in an order for three each for the girls before turning around to head out. She'd stop off at the Dead Man's Drink, catch Dengeir and-

Siddgeir's girlish shrieks echoed throughout the village as Odahviing grabbed him and flung the Jarl into the air, cutting off with the snap of ivory teeth as the dragon bit him in two. One more gulp and there was no more Jarl of Falkreath; Lydia and Ysraneth exchanged glances, tensing in case somebody got pissed off and decided to attack the big scaly bastard.

Even though Siddgeir was hated, neither woman was prepared for the outbreak of cheering that was probably heard in Whiterun. Someone found the ornate circlet that Siddgeir had worn and offered it to Ysraneth – much to her surprise, it was the Altmer Steward Nenya.

"He came out and started abusing Odahviing," the mer woman said cheerfully. "Obviously, the dragon was within his rights to attack him because Siddgeir used fighting words about you and Lydia."

"And as your huscarl, he's oathbound to defend your honour," Runil added shrewdly.

"So, what, I'm the Cannib-Jarl now?" Ysraneth asked with some disbelief. It couldn't be that easy to become the ruler of the Hold… Could it?

"Cannib-Jarl. I love that," Mathies said with a grin. Since Ysraneth had delivered Sindig's hide to the farmer, he'd been her source of vegetables (for the kids). "Anyone have any objections to Ysraneth taking over?"

You could have heard the crickets chirping in Whiterun, the silence was so profound.

Then it was broken by Odahviing vomiting. "Ugh," the dragon cried, spitting out Siddgeir. "That was so… oily!"

"Can I have a bathtub of mead for my… uh… huscarl?" Ysraneth asked of Narri.

Odahviing was given a lake of the stuff and Ysraneth reminded herself to set up a deal with Honningbrew Meadery. She'd need to make a good many trade deals with Balgruuf so they both got rich…

She took the circlet from Nenya and then tossed it on Siddgeir's corpse. "From here on in, the Jarl of Falkreath will wear a crown of the creatures they hunt," she decreed. "We are a Hold of the woods and we should reflect that."

Then she embraced Lydia, thinking _How the fuck am I going to handle this?_

…

"Needs more violence," Dean Viarmo said critically as Tasgeir the Wanderer presented his masterpiece, the final tale in the Ysraneth Cycle. "Make Siddgeir more of an outright villain – daedric plate, that sort of thing."

The younger bard rolled his eyes heavenward but said nothing. It was hard enough to figure out which part of the Poetic Edda the Ysraneth Cycle belonged in because while the battles against Alduin were heroic enough and none could deny the love she and Lydia shared, the Dragonborn being an unrepentant cannibal was almost anathema to all true Nords. Not to mention her crediting Sanguine with ending the Civil War via a giant orgy.

"A hundred years from now, no one will ever believe any of this happened," the bard sighed. "They'll make her a Bosmer or a Nord and ignore the history…"

Viarmo smirked. "The Thalmor will remember her. Assuming she leaves enough alive to do so."

Tasgeir shuddered. He commended her dedication to the ideals of her father's people, but the Dragonborn violating Cyrodiil's borders to hunt down Thalmor to feed her draconic liegecreatures was… frightening.

"Remember, Ysraneth is also a bard and a very educated woman. I'm sure she'll find ways to tell her own story." Viarmo smiled sagely. "Just polish up your saga and it should be good for the Poetic Edda."

The Altmer Dean, a middle-aged mer with a dry sense of humour, exited the library and left Tasgeir regarding his work with a despairing glance. To make it plausible would be to remove half the truth and to polish it up would be to make it unbelievable. Whatever was he to do?

One of the new students, a wiry Breton in plain robes, entered the library with an Imperial in patchwork motley. "Tasgeir!" Sam cried out cheerfully. "How's the saga going?"

Tasgeir sighed. "I've been told to polish it up, but I don't know how."

Sam and his friend exchanged glances. "Well, there's a few little details you don't know about and we do. Want to hear them?"

"Please!"

"Well, I met Yssie and Lydia when they were drinking in Whiterun after a long hard day of killing dragons…"

In later days, bards could never decide if Tasgeir the Wanderer's Ysraneth Cycle was factual, allegorical, parody or just plain insane. But even the dourest listener chuckled at the tales of the Cannib-Jarl, her beloved warrior consort and their draconic huscarl…

And in Sovngarde, the Dragonborn and her beloved lived happily ever after with plenty of Thalmor Tenderloin and mead to tide them and their family over for eternity. That was when they weren't partying in Oblivion, of course. Which was most of the time because Sanguine threw a better party than Shor.

What matters is that no matter where you are, good friends, good food and good drink will make you feel at home.


End file.
